


School

by earlgreytea68



Series: Nature & Nurture [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-07
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2018-03-29 10:01:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3892165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgreytea68/pseuds/earlgreytea68
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pretty much what it says on the tin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Природа и воспитание: Школа (School)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11083968) by [PulpFiction](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PulpFiction/pseuds/PulpFiction)



> I should really have good titles for these little Oliver ficlets that come up but they've been living by these one-word ideas for so long that I am failing at calling them something else. 
> 
> Thank you to arctacuda for beta-ing on top of everything else she does! 
> 
> I don't actually think this one was Britpicked, and I didn't think of that until I was writing up this a/n, so it could be kind of a mess. Oops.
> 
> Now translated into Russian! http://archiveofourown.org/works/11083968/chapters/24724458
> 
> Translated into Chinese here: http://betty215.lofter.com

Chapter One

John wanted to talk to him about something important that he wasn’t going to like. 

Sherlock knew this because Sherlock knew John, of course, but John was so obvious about these things that Sherlock was sure people passing him on the street knew that he had something important on his mind that he dreaded. Even the everyday idiot would be able to read John in such a circumstance. 

So Sherlock kept them busy because Sherlock was nothing if not brilliant at avoiding unpleasant circumstances. Sherlock had grown up avoiding his parents, so of course he was brilliant at such things. (Although, to be fair, Sherlock really was brilliant at most things, if he did say so himself, and he did.)

Luckily, Lestrade was being run ragged by a series of bank robberies, and bank robberies weren’t usually Sherlock’s thing but they worked well as a distraction. Plus, Oliver was fascinated by them, after too many murder scenes, so Sherlock thought it was all working out well. 

Until he miscalculated John’s willingness to bring up an unpleasant topic during a stakeout of the bank that was the likely next target. 

“Oliver needs to go to school this year,” John said without preamble. 

Sherlock startled badly and then fixed John with a glare. “Can we possibly save this for a time when we’re not chasing criminals?” he asked, keeping his voice low and gesturing to the bank for emphasis. 

“No,” said John, “because you are going to contrive to have us constantly be chasing criminals until Oliver is eighteen years old, and then you’ll say, ‘Oh, we never did send him off to school, did we? Oh, well, he did just fine.’”

“He _would_ do just fine, too. He doesn’t need _school_ , he has _me_.” 

“And me,” John pointed out. 

“Right. Yes. You, too.” Sherlock flapped his hand around. “He has me and he has you, discussion settled.” Sherlock turned back to the bank. 

“No, no, nothing is settled,” said John. “He needs to go to school.”

“You’ve already said that.” 

“But you haven’t responded to it.” 

“I responded to it. I didn’t agree to it, so you’re ignoring my response.” 

“Sherlock, there shouldn’t be a debate about this. He’s unbearably clever and he’s ready for school—”

“Exactly why he shouldn’t go to school: He’s unbearably clever. They’ll make him be…ordinary and boring.” Sherlock kept his gaze on the bank. 

He could feel John’s gaze on him, which was annoying because they were supposed to be doing a stakeout here, not fake-psychotherapy hour. “Do you think I’d let that happen?” asked John, finally, after a moment of blessed silence. 

“Oh, look,” said Sherlock, “I think I see a bank robber there.” 

“He’d like school, I think.”

“Yup, definitely a bank robber,” said Sherlock. 

“He’d get to lord it over all the other children.” 

“Why are we still having this conversation?” Sherlock hissed, turning to John swiftly. 

“Because we have to,” John replied, and it was so annoying to Sherlock that John was _so bloody stubborn_ all the time. 

“He’s three years old,” Sherlock reminded him. “He is _three years old_. He doesn’t need to go to school. He doesn’t need to go anywhere but where we are, or Mrs. Hudson or Molly or Mycroft in a pinch because you like Mycroft.” 

“I’m not saying he’s going to go to school full-time. A few hours a week, just—”

The bank exploded. 

***

“Sherlock,” said John. 

Sherlock snored extravagantly. 

“Sherlock, I know you’re awake.” 

Sherlock continued to snore.

“Psst,” John hissed in his ear. “Wake up. Are you awake?” 

Sherlock snored and snored and snored. 

And listened to John leave the room, go into the kitchen, and…start cleaning. It definitely sounded like he was cleaning. 

Clearly John was trying to prove that Sherlock was only faking his deep sleep, but it didn’t matter because that was definitely the rubbish bin John had pulled out and Sherlock had been working on those specimens for _weeks_. 

“Good,” John said, when Sherlock appeared in the kitchen doorway, and calmly put the specimens back down on the table. “You’re awake. Sit down, I’ll make tea.” 

Sherlock glared at him. “It is sleeping time.” 

“Sleeping time,” echoed John. “And you yell at me whenever I try to simplify vocabulary for Oliver.” 

“I mean it’s the time when you say people should be sleeping.” 

“Otherwise known as nighttime, Sherlock. It’s called ‘nighttime.’”

“Whatever.” Sherlock waved his hand around. “Let’s go sleep, then.” 

“No, we’re talking,” John said firmly. “Sit down.” 

“I hate talking,” Sherlock complained. 

“You love talking. You adore talking. You are completely obsessed with the sound of your own voice. You and Oliver talk constantly without ever acknowledging what anyone else is saying to you. You don’t like talking when you have to listen to _my_ voice.” 

“You have a lovely voice,” Sherlock said sincerely, after a second. 

John looked at him in what seemed like pleasant surprise. “Thank you.” 

“I just don’t like to hear your lovely voice saying stupid things,” said Sherlock. 

“Oh my God,” said John, “sit _down_.” 

Sherlock sat down because Sherlock obeyed Captain Watson tones of voice, and Sherlock didn’t provoke them very often—Sherlock was smug that Oliver provoked them much more often—but Sherlock had been expecting one. He watched John silently make them tea and then settle at the table with him. 

Then he ventured, “Do you want to shag, maybe?” 

“Sherlock, let’s talk about the school thing,” said John. 

“Last time we talked about the school thing, a bank exploded.” 

“It only exploded a little bit.” 

“Best not to tempt fate. God has spoken on the subject of Oliver going to school.” 

“It wasn’t fate or God, it was bank robbers we were chasing. Now I wanted to do this in bed with you in the dark because that’s how you prefer to have serious conversations, but you kept snoring obnoxiously in my ear. Which, by the way, is a dead giveaway, you know, because you actually don’t snore. Now talk to me about school. Why don’t you want him to go?” 

Sherlock decided to take the question seriously. It was a stupid and pointless question, but John was obsessed with it so he might as well humor him. “He’s happy how he is. He won’t learn anything in school we can’t teach him. We’ll just make him unhappy and resentful. And I prefer him to be neither of those things.” Sherlock thought that was a very reasoned and sensible response. He sipped his tea, proud of himself. 

John looked at him with that _look_ he had sometimes, that look like Sherlock had said something John found momentous. 

“You tell me why you think he ought to go to school,” Sherlock demanded, trying to head off whatever momentous thing John was going to act like he’d discovered. 

“He needs friends, Sherlock,” John said. 

“He doesn’t need friends,” Sherlock said gamely. 

“Yes, he does.” 

“I didn’t need friends,” Sherlock pointed out sourly. 

“Yes, you did,” said John simply. 

Sherlock frowned. “I did fine without friends. Look, other children are idiots and they’ll—they won’t—it’s dangerous to make him think that he needs other people if other people won’t—he has us, he’ll be fine.” 

John gave him that _look_ again. 

“Stop it,” Sherlock told him. “Never mind. Let’s go back to bed in the dark; that would be better.” 

“Do you think I’d ever make him do anything that would make him unhappy, Sherlock?” John asked. 

“I think you wouldn’t _know_ , John. I think you’d think you’re doing a splendid thing, but sometimes you’re an idiot, and sometimes you have no idea, and for you school was wonderful because you played rugby and shagged girls and, I don’t know, got drunk and threw up in alleys—”

“Sherlock, he’s _three_. That isn’t what school is—”

“Don’t pretend to miss my point,” Sherlock cut him off. “You were the popular boy. If we’d been in school together, you would never have even looked twice at me. You would have been all golden-glow and no one would laugh at you being clever at biology and chemistry because you’d also be clever at stupid football nonsense and, I don’t know, sitting around wearing hoodies or whatever it was people like you did in school.” Sherlock put a finger in his cooling tea and stirred it around absently. “It isn’t how school is, for people who aren’t you.” 

“Every single person you ever knew before you met me was an idiot,” John said fiercely. 

Sherlock chuckled without humor. “We agree on that point.” 

“He’s not you, Sherlock.” 

“He is entirely me,” Sherlock reminded him. 

“No. Sherlock. Look at me.” 

Sherlock did, and realized it was the first time he’d looked at John since he’d suggested they go back to bed. John was no longer wearing _that look_. Instead, John was wearing his look of supreme determination. His _I carry an illegal gun and I’m not afraid to use it_ look. 

“He’s not you,” John said. 

“You can’t just—” Sherlock said, and cut himself off and took a deep breath and tried to be coherent about this, because it was important and Oliver needed him to be coherent on this point. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose because he preferred these conversations to be in the dark, even if he had to _manufacture_ the dark. “You can’t just put him in this situation and think he won’t want it, John. Because he will. He’ll want to be… He’ll want to be like everyone else and then he won’t be, and it will break his heart, and I love you, you know I do, but I won’t let you break his heart.” Sherlock held his breath and waited for John to respond. 

“Okay,” John said softly, after a long, agonizing moment. 

Sherlock dared to squint out at John. “Okay?” he said hopefully. 

“Okay. Let’s table the school discussion. Let’s start slowly.” 

Sherlock’s eyes were now narrowed suspiciously. “Start slowly how?” 

“A playgroup. Can we just do a playgroup? Just…just a few kids, right? Just a few hours? We’ll just…see.” 

“See what?” asked Sherlock, still suspicious. 

“I don’t know. Dangerous to draw conclusions without all the evidence, right? I don’t know what we’ll see.” 

Sherlock regarded him. “This is a trick,” he said doubtfully. 

“This is a _compromise_ , Sherlock,” John countered. 

“Who are these children?” Sherlock asked. “How would you find them? Are you just going to place an ad on your blog asking for volunteers?” 

“Of course I’m not going to— Listen, leave it to me, okay? We’ll just…do a playgroup. And if the whole thing is a disaster, then we’ll table the school discussion for a few years. But if it goes well, we revisit the school discussion. Deal?” 

Sherlock considered. “We’ll revisit the school discussion. We won’t necessarily send him to school.” 

“Yes,” John said. “Absolutely.”

“Okay,” said Sherlock slowly. “Deal.” 

***

Sherlock and Oliver were at Speedy’s, practicing deductions on the patrons, and John walked to the market and rang Mycroft on the way. 

Mycroft answered with, “What’s wrong?” because that was how Mycroft answered the phone when John rang. 

“I need your help,” John said. 

“Of course. What’s wrong?” asked Mycroft evenly. 

“Do you know any children?” John asked. 

There was a long, flat moment of silence. “You mean other than Oliver?” asked Mycroft, finally. 

“Other than Oliver,” John confirmed. 

“John, of the two of us, who do you think is more likely to know children other than Oliver?” Mycroft queried patiently. 

“I need to find a playgroup,” said John. 

“Not usually in my job description,” remarked Mycroft. 

“Oh, come on, your job description is ‘everything.’ And I need this to be a good playgroup. Good children who will be, you know, nice.” 

“You want me to find you a playgroup with good, nice children,” Mycroft clarified. 

“Maybe Greg will know of one?” John offered hopefully. 

“I’m sure in your head it makes sense that Greg would know of a playgroup.” 

“Mycroft,” John said firmly. “I know that you are on my side when it comes to socializing Oliver. I know you know that it would be good for him to go to school and make friends.”

“And I always told you that you’d never get Sherlock to agree to it. Sherlock had a terrible time in school.” 

John knew that. John could always have guessed that, but it was worse for him now that he had the perfect reference of baby Sherlock that was Oliver. And it was worse now that he’d made Sherlock sit in the kitchen and basically be raw in front of him about how much it had broken his heart not to have friends in school. “Right, but I think—”

“You think it will be different because you’re involved, and I don’t know how you expect to control the cruelty of other children. You can’t go around shooting all of them, you know. School is an inescapably terrible place, but it’s just a rite of passage, and it will make Oliver stronger.” 

“Jesus, Mycroft, you’re really selling this, aren’t you? What the hell are those posh schools like, anyway?” 

Mycroft sighed heavily.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

The following day, in the middle of a violin lesson, the doorbell rang. 

“Not a client,” said Oliver, who knew the signs, and ran to the window to peer out, and then gasped, “It’s _children_!”

“It’s what?” said Sherlock, putting his violin down. 

John, who had been washing dishes, stuck his head out of the kitchen. “What did he say?” 

Oliver was already rushing past him, down the stairs. 

“Oliver!” Sherlock called after him. “Wait! You don’t know what they want! It could be dangerous! They could be evil children!”

“Even better!” Oliver called back to him. 

Sherlock frowned at John, as if John was to blame for that insanity. 

“He’s you,” John reminded him. 

“Where did the children come from, John?” Sherlock demanded. 

“Do you think I hired out children?” John asked innocently. 

Sherlock grabbed his coat and followed Oliver down the stairs, and John followed close behind him because he was insatiably curious, too. 

There were, indeed, children at their door. A well-groomed little knot of them. All of them perfectly dressed. And attended by people who could only be nannies, John thought. They were all regarding Oliver with polite interest. 

Oliver said formally, “One moment,” and then, as an afterthought, “please,” and then closed the door in their faces and turned to John and Sherlock. “They want me to go and play,” he announced, and then, “Seems suspicious.” 

John opened his mouth to say that playing with other children wasn’t suspicious, then caught the look on Sherlock’s face, which was an odd combination of horror and terror and sorrow and devotion. 

Sherlock said, his voice carefully neutral, “They would like to play with you, Ollie. Nothing suspicious about that.” 

Oliver scrunched his face in thoughtfulness, an expression Sherlock sometimes still wore but John supposed had largely outgrown. “There isn’t?” 

“No,” said Sherlock firmly. “It’s perfectly natural. Perfectly normal. Would you like to go and play?” 

Oliver considered, then opened the door again. “Where are we playing?” he asked. 

“The park,” said one of the nannies. 

Oliver considered again. “With the ducks?” 

“I hate the ducks,” said one of the children. 

“The ducks are evil,” Oliver agreed. “I saw one kill a man once.” 

The children gasped. 

“Did you?” asked one. 

“Well, the body of the man it killed. Same thing,” said Oliver. “I know all the things that can kill you in the park.” 

“What can kill you in the park?” asked another child. 

“Ducks,” answered Oliver knowledgeably. 

He joined the little knot of children and it moved off down the street. Sherlock and John stepped out to follow it. 

John said, “He’s so you that it hurts me sometimes. You know that, right?” 

Sherlock said, “Those children came from Mycroft.” 

“Christ, I hope not. I hate to think of your brother being involved in that much procreation.” 

“You know what I mean,” said Sherlock firmly. 

John was silent for a second. Then he admitted, “I thought you could use some… Look. He’s fine, isn’t he?” John nodded toward where Oliver was holding majestic court to the huddle of fascinated children. 

Sherlock regarded him for a long moment, then said softly, “He’s really not as like me as you think.” 

***

John often asked Sherlock what it was he did with Oliver during the long nights when John was being what he called “a human being” and sleeping. The truth was that often Sherlock and Oliver did absolutely nothing. They had the same comfort level with vast amounts of silence, and they would frequently go an entire night barely acknowledging the other’s presence, not in a rude or mean way, just in a there-is-something-else-my-mind-is-occupied-with way. 

So Sherlock understood why Oliver looked up at him in surprise when Sherlock sat opposite him on the floor and said, “Can I ask you something, Ollie?” 

Oliver was in the middle of constructing the model of a spine that Mycroft had brought for him. Mycroft brought Oliver unfailingly thoughtful presents; it drove Sherlock absolutely mad, and Sherlock suspected that was why Mycroft did it. 

“Would you like to go to school?” asked Sherlock. 

Oliver scrunched up his small, miniature-Sherlock face for half-a-second before turning back to his spine dismissively. “What would I learn at school?” 

“Exactly,” said Sherlock, feeling triumphant. Oliver felt exactly the same way as he did. Of course he did: Oliver was his clone, after all. 

Sherlock left Oliver to his spine and went back to the treatise he was supposed to be drafting on how to detect dental hygiene and how to interpret once detected. But his careful notes no longer made the sense he knew they should make. He found himself watching Oliver, who was talking to himself as he put the spine together, little pondering _hmm_ s and triumphant _aha_ s. Oliver, completely alone with his project. So alone he was talking _to himself_. 

But surely Oliver wanted to be alone, Sherlock argued with himself. Surely Oliver preferred it. Sherlock himself preferred to work alone, it was quicker and neater and—

The biggest lie he’d ever told himself, he thought. He had been lonely every second of every day until he met John, he had just stopped letting himself acknowledge it because if he’d acknowledged it he would have had to just… _stop_. 

Sherlock took a deep breath and moved to sit opposite Oliver on the floor again. Oliver gave him another surprised look. 

Sherlock said, “Do you want some help?” 

Oliver gave him a baleful look. “I don’t need help.” 

“Of course you don’t,” Sherlock agreed, realizing his mistake. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re doing?” 

And Oliver, after a cautious second, _beamed_ at him. And then Oliver held out the model of the spine and told Sherlock exactly what he was doing. He knew none of the technically correct terms for any of it, but his explanation involved “that pointy bit” connecting to “that not-pointy bit” and then settling against “the round bit here” and going over to “the part that’s not white here.” Oliver, in his eagerness to explain exactly how his model of the spine was put together, literally clambered onto Sherlock’s lap and held the spine up this way and that, the better for Sherlock to see it. 

Sherlock made appropriate noises but barely listened because he was busy being horrified. Was his child _lonely_? Had he actually somehow raised a lonely child, after being so determined not to? 

He pressed his nose into Oliver’s curls and said, “Oliver, you know you could have told me this at any time.” 

“I know,” said Oliver happily, and leaned back into the snuggle. 

“There is never a time I don’t want to hear what you have to say,” said Sherlock. 

“I know,” said Oliver again, and turned his spine upside-down the better to admire it. 

“Did you have a good time with the children at the park?” asked Sherlock. 

“I did,” said Oliver, his voice sunny and pleased. “They didn’t know _anything_. They were idiots.” 

“Right,” Sherlock murmured into Oliver’s hair. “Of course. Would you like to go to school? You wouldn’t learn anything, you’d just…explain things to the other children.” 

“That sounds nice,” said Oliver flippantly, as if it wasn’t just the most momentous thing Sherlock had heard since the moment Mycroft said, _Oh, look, here’s your clone_. 

***

“Everything about this school is tedious,” Sherlock announced loudly, and John looked around at the curious glances they were getting and turned to Sherlock and begged, “Shh.” 

“Why should I be quiet?” asked Sherlock, sending an answering glare to the teacher. “It’s true. Oliver isn’t going to want to play _kitchen_. This kitchen has absolutely no chemistry equipment. What is he to do with a kitchen with no chemistry equipment?” 

“Cook?” suggested John blandly. 

“These aren’t _real appliances_ ,” said Sherlock, as if he really thought John was confused about this. 

“Can I help you?” asked the teacher, coming up to them with a tight smile. 

“Hello,” John said, trying to smile as much as possible to make up for Sherlock. “I’m John. This is my husband, Sherlock. And we have a little boy who is—”

“Much too intelligent for this school,” Sherlock inserted. 

John gave the teacher his most flirtatious smile, which was a bit out of practice these days, but if Sherlock was going to be this difficult then John had to do something to try to combat it. “He’s—”

“What sort of children do you get at this school?” asked Sherlock. “I mean, I know they’re going to be idiots but are they idiots prone to admiring a superior intellect or are they idiots who make fun of things because they can’t think of anything more intelligent to do?” 

“Sherlock and I are going to go and examine the fancy-dress corner,” John announced, and tugged Sherlock over to it. “Okay, I know this is hard for you,” John whispered to him. 

Sherlock was glancing through the costumes. “This is the only interesting thing at this school,” he announced, pulling out a pink tutu. “Fancy-dress corner. Good idea.” 

“Glad you approve of one thing. Sherlock. Look at me.” 

Sherlock sighed and stopped fidgeting with the costumes. He didn’t quite look at John’s face, but he looked at John’s chest, and John supposed he would take it. 

“If he hates school, we will take him out immediately. I promise you. Right?” 

“Right, but it’ll be after the children are miserable,” Sherlock pointed out. 

“If the children are miserable, we can have Mycroft give their parents lots of parking tickets.” 

Sherlock brightened. “Excellent.” 

“I’m not serious about that,” said John. 

“You’re not, but Mycroft definitely will be,” said Sherlock cheerfully. 

John feared that might be true. Mycroft doted on Oliver, and John really did think that he’d bring the entire British government down on any child who dared to make him cry. 

John thought of a child making Oliver cry and decided he didn’t have a problem with Mycroft using the British government that way. He also thought he’d cry himself to sleep over it if he caused Oliver that much pain. 

He said awkwardly, “It’ll be fine.” 

Sherlock just gave him a look. 

***

On Oliver’s first day of school, he looked so ridiculously old in his uniform that John actually checked his calendar on his phone to be sure of the year. Surely, he thought, there must be some mistake. Surely the tiny baby who had changed his life wasn’t ready for school already, wasn’t hovering on the cusp of _four years old. Four years_. John had a sudden flash of how quickly everything Oliver-involved would be grown-up and over and abruptly he said, “Maybe this wasn’t a good idea.” He actually felt a little ill. Oliver would be out of their flat soon enough. Why was he pushing him out? Why didn’t he keep him home as long as he could, cuddle and coddle him? The world was a terrible place, and he was the one shoving Oliver out into it. 

Sherlock looked at him, while Mrs. Hudson took a ridiculous amount of photos, in every one of which Oliver was frowning heavily at her with thunderous displeasure over the uncalled-for fuss. 

And then Sherlock said lightly, “He’ll be fine.” 

John looked at him in disbelief. “What? You’ve thought this the end of the world since I first suggested it.” 

Sherlock paused and looked at Oliver and said, “Well. Yes. And I’m still not convinced. But only one of us is allowed to panic at a time, otherwise it would be complete chaos around here. He’ll be fine.” 

John looked at him for a long moment. “Sherlock, yesterday you literally _exploded_ a dead rat on our kitchen table.” 

“I…cleaned up…a corner of that,” said Sherlock, waving his hand about. 

“I’m just saying, I don’t know what your definition of ‘complete chaos’ is if it isn’t already our lives,” and then John kissed him. 

Oliver said firmly, “That’s enough, let’s go.” 

John thought maybe the primary advantage of getting Oliver out of the house would be shagging opportunities on days when there were no pressing crimes. 

They walked Oliver to school together. Oliver clung to his skull and seemed very happy to be going, half-skipping down the pavement and keeping up a steady stream of deductions about the people around them. Sherlock normally participated in the deduction showing-off, but he was quiet as they walked, which didn’t surprise John. 

John also felt the CCTV cameras turning to follow them. Sherlock hadn’t wanted Mycroft to accompany them on the first day, and John had for once understood Sherlock’s exclusion of Mycroft. This felt like a very private struggle Sherlock was dealing with in letting Oliver go to school, and John didn’t want Mycroft to necessarily witness it. 

But John said anyway, “Wave to your uncle Mycroft, Ollie,” and Oliver obediently flapped his hand in the direction of the nearest CCTV camera without bothering to look up. 

When they arrived at the school, Oliver’s stream of chatter faded. He stood clinging to his skull and looked very little and slightly overwhelmed. John tried to think of the last time he had seen Oliver overwhelmed. He didn’t like to think of it, actually. 

John heard himself say, “If you don’t want to go in—”

“Oliver, if you hate it,” Sherlock cut him off firmly, “have a teacher ring us and we will come for you right away. This isn’t a punishment, or a test you have to pass. It’s simply school. And if you dislike it, if anybody makes you feel anything less than brilliant whilst you’re here, you don’t have to stay. You never have to stay and do anything that makes you feel less than brilliant. We wouldn’t make you. Do you understand?” 

Oliver looked wide-eyed from Sherlock to the children running through the room, nodding. 

Sherlock put a hand on Oliver’s head. “All that said, I have it on good authority that these children are very nice children.” 

“Authority from whom?” asked Oliver suspiciously.

“Your uncle Mycroft,” said Sherlock. 

“You actually did have Mycroft vet the children, didn’t you?” said John. 

“Don’t be daft, John, of course I did,” answered Sherlock. 

Then a teacher came up to them. Not the one who had been present when they’d looked at the school. A different teacher. 

She leaned down and said, “You must be Oliver. I’ve heard so much about you. What a lovely skull.” 

“It’s my dad’s,” said Oliver, clinging to it. “But it’s mine now. And it used to belong to a man whose body was used for medical experiments.” 

“Fascinating,” said the teacher. “I used to perform autopsies, you know.”

Oliver looked suitably impressed. “So does my friend Molly. What’s the worst autopsy you ever performed? She says hers was some bloke who got pulled through a big machine.” 

“Let’s sit over here and I’ll tell you all about it,” said the teacher, with a smile and wink at John and Sherlock as Oliver followed her. 

“Oh my God,” said John. “Your brother literally went out and hired a teacher especially for Oliver, didn’t he?” 

“My brother is a genius. And I’ll deny it if you ever tell him I said that.” 

Oliver, as if it was an afterthought, turned to them and, beaming, waved.


End file.
